"Do not call me that in public," I whisper.
"Oh, in private then? Bedroom voice, maybe." She wiggles her eyebrows.
Frankie elbows her. "Dial it back, Gremlin."
Ruby grins and winks. We climb two flights, duck onto the ICU floor, then slip into the side corridor. I peek around the corner toward Trent's room.
Two cops. One scrolling his phone, one trying hard not to fall asleep standing.
"Security level: decorative," Ruby whispers.
I check my watch. "Shift change in four minutes. They'll swap out and there's always a gap."
"Plan?" Frankie murmurs.
"Fast, quiet, wildly disrespectful," Ruby says.
"Medically safe," I add automatically. "No messing with lines. No touching his meds. I am not losing my license over this man's missing dick."
Ruby wrinkles her nose. "God, can you imagine having that in your disciplinary file? 'Terminated: prank on neutered douche canoe.'"
Despite everything, a laugh hits the back of my throat.
We wait. At 10:02, both cops peel off toward the elevator, and their replacements are nowhere in sight. I push the door open.
Trent lies pale and slack-jawed with tubes and wires everywhere, blanket tucked protectively over the bandaged wreckage where Darla shot him.
Ruby clutches her chest dramatically. "Aww. Poor little gelding."
I snort so fast I almost choke. Frankie opens her tote and pulls out glitter boots.
Ruby claps both hands over her mouth to muffle a squeal. "You broke into the sacred closet?"
"No, they were at my place," Frankie corrects. "She'll thank me later."
We move as though we've rehearsed this. We haven't. But we're women who've survived men like Trent. That's its own choreography.
Frankie lifts the blanket at the foot of the bed, keeping all the lines clear. "Vitals stable," she comments dryly. "Shame."
Ruby slides the sparkly boots onto Trent's limp feet, tongue caught between her teeth as she adjusts the zippers. "They fit. The universe wants this."
I grab a marker and cross out the catheter label on the bag hanging by the bedrail. Rewrite it neatly: Princess Tinkles.
Ruby wheezes. Frankie fans herself with a latex glove.
"Lashes," Frankie prompts.
Ruby digs into my scrub pocket like it's hers and produces the fake lashes. "Confiscated from a unicorn princess who absolutely needed that much glam at 9 a.m."
"She did," I reply. "But Trent needs them more."
Frankie tapes them to the monitor casing right above the sedation warning, angled just so. The heart-rate line blips cheerfully below them. I smooth the blanket back over his feet and the glitter boots, tucking him in with hospital-grade care, because professionalism and petty vengeance can coexist.
The last step is the card. Ruby hands it over, eyes shining.
Trent, drawn with ridiculous accuracy, being wheeled into the underworld by glitter demons. Captioned: Have a Neuter Day. Signed—in faked handwriting—by half the night shift.
"That is… elaborate," I murmur.
